They’re talking about this pointless shit because they don’t know what the hell to say to me. It’s the same at school. What no one understands is that it doesn’t matter what’s being said—everything makes me think about my dead mother because that’s all I ever think about. Kara literally breaks out in a sweat when we’re alone, as if suicidal mothers are contagious. I should tell her not to worry; her wannabe of a mom is way too vain to take her own life.
I’ve learned to completely block out my friends. I don’t listen to their words, just the pattern of their speech. Each person is different. Kara doesn’t take many breaths, so her sentences come out in little sprints: There’s-a-sale-at-Nordstrom-today-and-I-need-a-new-strapless-bathing-suit-that’s-not-plain-black-so-let’s-go-right-after-school. As long as you keep a smile on your face, she doesn’t notice you’re not listening. She doesn’t give a rat’s ass about anyone’s opinion anyway. I haven’t yet perfected zoning out Mrs. Anderson—though I’ll be sure to get right on it after this car ride—so it’s hard to ignore when she jumps in with more of a squeal to ask why I’m not wearing my team ribbon.
“Couldn’t find it,” I mumble.
“You should’ve called, dear. We have extras at the house.”
Of course she does. I’m not her dear.
“I might have one in my bag,” Kara says, “but it’s in the trunk.”
I stay silent while the two of them debate whether Kara does in fact have an extra bow in her bag and, if not, whatever will we do? There’s a long list of possibilities here: ask the other girls, Mrs. Anderson running home, going to Jo-Ann Fabrics for a new one.… The topic isn’t dropped until we arrive and Kara uncovers that—praise Jesus—she has an extra bow for me. Mother and daughter sigh with relief, proud of their impressive problem-solving.
I leave them in the parking lot congratulating each other only to discover that the make-believe-it’s-not–Mother’s-Day plan didn’t stop with my dad and the Ribbon Police. I don’t know who coordinated it, but there isn’t a single cheesy WE LOVE OUR MOMS! sign, even from opposing teams. The buckets full of roses we usually hand out are nowhere to be seen. Mother’s Day has poof disappeared, just like my mother.
As people spot me they look to their feet, pausing whatever pointless conversation they’re having. Eventually the uncomfortable silence passes and heads pop back up like I’m a freaking zoo exhibit. They expect a dramatic breakdown, but I refuse to be the entertainment. I change my shoes without a word.
The match starts on time. Refusing to give the crowd even a frown, I take everything I’ve lost and put it in the force of my racket. Each time I connect with the ball I think, Screw all of you. My form suffers when I go all in with strength, causing a few stupid errors that catch the net or fall out-of-bounds, but I win all three matches. The losers will play it off as intentional. They’ll go home to their intact families, proud of their sensitivity in pretending Mother’s Day didn’t exist. “I’m glad she won,” they’ll lie. “She needed it more than me.”
Screw all of you.
No matter how people justify it, these cover-ups are not about comforting me. They’re so people can skip the depressing conversation. Or not feel guilty they still have a mother. Or stall a private consideration that if it happened to me it could happen to them.
A week after the funeral I went back to school because Dad and I were such a mess together I was afraid we’d off ourselves too. It’s hard to say which is worse. At school people are so desperate for me to talk that when I finally speak, even if it’s just to say I have to use the restroom, they’re all like, “Really, Eve? Wow. That’s soooooo amazing.” It drives me apeshit. Unlike the deep pain I experience with my dad, I feel nothing at all with my friends. In some ways it’s creepier.
At lunch there’s pressure to eat. Nothing is more loved at my school than a good eating disorder to diagnose, so I’m careful to finish what I pack. Anything is better than sitting through a food intervention with a bunch of teary-eyed girls and our clueless guidance counselor. We had one for Becky when she was making herself puke. I was all into it at the time. Lindsey told her mom, who told the guidance counselor, who helped us set Becky on the right course. All Becky took from it was the tip that everyone knows the sound of someone throwing up, so unless you’re in a private stall, anorexia is a better option.
I’m at no risk for that particular societal trap. I despise puking and get wicked headaches when I go too long without eating. My problem is mental. Whole days pass where I don’t remember physically walking from one class to the next. The dismissal bell rings and I can’t remember where I parked or even driving to school. Teachers are divided on how to react. A few completely ignore what happened. They have no idea how to respond, so they treat me no differently than they did when I had a living, breathing mom at home. Most of the older ones are on a compassion mission. They ask how I’m doing before and after each class. No matter what I say, they flip their lips into their teeth and nod. The remaining teachers believe life is hard and, although it doesn’t seem like it now, my mom’s suicide will somehow serve me well later in life. They use the word grit a lot. Most of these assholes are now tougher when grading, as if to prove nothing is fair and life hasn’t come to a stop.
But it has. This is a small town. I’ll forever be branded the daughter of the stay-at-home mom who jumped off the Wellesley College library. My mom took my life with hers. I considered taking off in her BMW, but that only ever works out in movies. If I showed up in New York with no money I’d be spit right back out and my story would be even sorrier than it is now. This neighborhood already grieves my potential like a lost life. College is my ticket out, but I can’t handle another year of this shit. I use Kara and her mom’s silence over their devastating loss to finalize my plan.